


I've Never Felt So Alive

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Take Me To The Stars [36]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The expectation: Versailles.The reality: a lazy afternoon on the TARDIS, interrupted only by some friends with a maddening amount of persistence.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Series: Take Me To The Stars [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1139201
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	I've Never Felt So Alive

**Author's Note:**

> An extension of [this drabble,](https://universe-on-her-shoulders.tumblr.com/post/189336672895/hi-46-13clara-46-help-me-find-my-shirt) because it was glorious fun.
> 
> Some soft silliness to get us through!

This isn’t how the Doctor and Clara envisioned their afternoon going, and yet somehow… Clara isn’t complaining. The original plan had been to go to the court of Louise XIV at Versailles, and yet the process of trying on appropriate gowns together and unlacing each other’s corsets had grown increasingly distracting, and somewhere along the way, the idea of going to court had been abandoned in favour of, well… going to bed instead. This had seemed a nice idea in principle, but they hadn’t quite made it that far the first time around, and had only moved the second time once the TARDIS had grown increasingly irritated at them lounging around on her floors, and the ship had made threats of a distinctly personal nature. They’d relocated to Clara’s bed with the utmost reluctance, and they haven’t moved since.

“You know,” Clara muses, propping her head on her hand and surveying her partner with a soft smile. They’re both illuminated by the faint white glow of the round things that make up one wall, and it gives the Doctor an ethereal appearance. “I think we should have afternoons in bed more often.”

“In bed?” the Doctor asks, yawning, before adding cheekily: “Or on floors?”

“Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not teasing you; I’m asking.”

“It’s not my fault you look so good in a corset,” Clara smirks, reaching over and running a fingertip from the Time Lady’s sternum to her navel. “Or so good _out_ of a corset.”

“You,” the Doctor scoots towards her and kisses her languidly, catching Clara’s hand in her own and giving it a chastising squeeze as she does so. “Are a terrible influence. I’m sure the TARDIS is really pleased with you.”

“Sorry, not sorry, old girl,” Clara calls up at the ceiling, snickering as she does so. “If you didn’t want people to do unspeakable things in your wardrobe, you really shouldn’t fill it with so many corsets. All that temptation? My girlfriend squeezed into things with laces and boning? I mean, how was I meant to resist? It was an invitation to unwrap her.”

There’s a chastising sort of beeping by way of response, and Clara bites back a laugh.

“Sorry,” she says more earnestly, feeling a brief stab of guilt at having, well… not _defiled_ the ship, but certainly having misbehaved. “Really. Sorry. Won’t happen again. We’ll limit ourselves to uh… this room, the Doctor’s room, the study, and the library next time.”

“Clara!” the Doctor protests, her cheeks burning at the insinuation. “We haven’t… the _library_?”

“Call it a bucket list,” Clara shrugs, then chances: “Or a fuck-it list.”

The Doctor groans as Clara smirks. “That’s terrible, and we aren’t… doing things in the library.”

“Why?!” Clara asks, her imagination wandering. She’s had inappropriate thoughts about the things she could do in the library since the first time she’d wandered in there by mistake, and now there’s the very real prospect of making those sordid imaginings come true, it’s taking all of her willpower not to drag the Doctor there at that very moment, and... well, she tries magnanimously to curtail that line of thought. “All that leather and wood? Come on, at least it’s wipe-clean.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re extremely attractive, _and_ you made me wait how long to actually have sex with you?”

“Don’t be annoying,” the Doctor asks, although she places one hand on Clara’s cheek and kisses her again, her other hand finding Clara’s hip and drawing her closer to her. Clara hooks one leg over her partner’s, and the Doctor arches an eyebrow by way of response; she has so much self-control that Clara can’t help but whimper.

“I’m not being annoying,” Clara breathes, forcing herself to adopt a wide-eyed expression of innocence. “I’m trying to give you sexy ideas.”

“Well, sexy hints are taken,” the Doctor raises her eyebrows, rolling over without warning and pinning Clara beneath her, trapping her hands in one of her own and holding them above Clara’s head on the pillow. Clara feels her pulse begin to accelerate by way of response, although the Doctor is hovering just out of her reach, the Time Lady’s weight settled just _so_ across her torso to stop her from fighting back. “Stop scaring the TARDIS or she’s going to confine you to one room, and I can’t say I’d blame her.”

“Come on, it can’t be worse than some of the things you’ve done,” Clara counters, endeavouring to keep her breathing even, and affixing the Doctor with a curious look. “Weirdest place you’ve done the deed?”

“In here?” the Doctor mumbles, letting go of Clara’s hands, and Clara seizes the opportunity to roll them both over, moving to straddle the Time Lady and then smirking down at her. There’s a rush of cold air around her exposed torso as she rears up out of the duvet, and so she rearranges herself more horizontally, but remains atop the Doctor; the power connotations are intoxicating, and she presses a kiss to her partner’s shoulder as she tries to retain her own self-control. “Or out there in the real world, as it were?”

“In here.”

“Urm,” the Doctor cheeks flush in a way that Clara knows all too well; knows if she kisses the Time Lady now, the delicate pink colour will become a full-body blush. The Doctor has been alive for millennia, and yet intimacy and lust are still enough to send her body into embarrassed, flushed overdrive; it remains intoxicating to Clara that she can have that effect on a being who is otherwise so measured and restrained. She bites her lip as she Doctor continues: “The console. It wasn’t my idea, one of my uh… partner’s heels flipped the handbrake, sweat got into the coolant system, and the TARDIS didn’t speak to me for a week. It was a very, very long week. I had to do a lot of maintenance and a lot of grovelling before she even let me near her again… and I kept getting surprise showers. I’m not sure what she was trying to say.”

“Surprise showers?”

“Yeah, I’d be minding my own business and I’d suddenly get doused in water,” the Doctor shudders at the recollection, and Clara tries to ignore the image of a sodden Doctor, peeling off layers of wet fabric in the corridor and stomping around the TARDIS in a state of undress. “Not fun.”

“Clearly she was trying to make a point about your urm… intimate sweat.”

“Do _you_ want to make a point about my intimate sweat, or are you just trying to be irritating for the fun of it?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes,” the Doctor reasons, ignoring Clara’s angelic expression. “And don’t get too cocky, or _you’ll_ end up getting a surprise shower.”

“Would the TARDIS do that to me?” Clara asks with martyr-like affliction, although the thought of suddenly finding herself soaked to the skin and then _having_ to take off her clothes in front of the Doctor was uniquely appealing. “No, she would not.”

The TARDIS beeps contrarily.

“You stay out of it,” Clara says sternly, then pats the wall in a fond manner. “I’m sorry, alright? No more naughtiness in the wardrobe.”

“Thank you,” the Doctor says gratefully, before catching sight of Clara’s expression. “What?”

“Are you implying my wardrobe performance wasn’t up to snuff?” Clara asks, with mock seriousness, entwining her hands with the Doctor’s and giving them a warning squeeze. “Are you leaving me a bad review on Trip Advisor?”

“I would like to hope that you don’t have a Trip Advisor for your nether regions, and no, I’m not,” she rolls her eyes. “I just think the ship will be grateful.”

“You dork.”

“You love me though.”

“Do I?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” Clara smirks, and the Doctor kisses her again, long and sweet and slow, moving them both onto their sides, and Clara is just considering starting round three when-

“Hello?” 

The call is faint but discernible; even from this distance, Clara recognises Yaz’s voice, and she bites down on her lip to keep from groaning aloud as she realises that their lazy afternoon is at an end. Well. At the very least, they might have to get dressed, which is a distinctly unappealing prospect at present.

“Doctor? Where are you?” Yaz calls from somewhere far, far away on the ship.

“Oh, no,” the Doctor breathes, sitting bolt upright in bed with a look of abject panic as comprehension dawns on her. The covers fall away from her, and Clara is about to kiss her again when she darts out of reach and scoots over to the edge of the bed. “I totally forgot… we’re meant to be going to… how did they… I’m going to kill the TARDIS…”

The Doctor scrambles out of bed, hair tousled, and immediately trips over her bunched-up, discarded trousers from several hours earlier, pre-wardrobe misbehaviour. Clara lets out a yelp of laughter and rolls to the edge of the mattress, peering over at the Time Lady who is now spread-eagled on the floor and scowling up at her. As she laughs, the Doctor rearranges herself into a vaguely vertical position, then begins hunting for something.

“Help me find my shirt,” the Doctor asks pleadingly, scrabbling around in search of the offending item of clothing. “You know she’ll come looking for us… come on, don’t subject Yaz to me topless.”

“Oh yes,” Clara deadpans, fighting to keep a straight face as she looks over at her frazzled partner, who is sifting through discarded items of clothing and then chucking them aside as each proves not to be the necessary t-shirt she is hunting for. “You topless. What a terrible, terrible prospect. I really, really loathe and despise all the times I have been subjected to that most awful, traumatising of sights. I’ll need so much therapy to recover. What a dreadful afternoon we spent, what with _both_ of us being topless. How will I ever move past it?”

“Not funny,” the Doctor says, blowing her hair off her face and then running her hands through it in a bid to make it look less tousled. “Shirt. Please. Help. Find.”

“You know, much as I want to… I don’t want to.”

“Can you at least point me to a bra? Any bra? Your bra, my bra, a sheepdog bra, any bra. I really do not care, just find me – as you like to say – a boulder holder. _Please_.”

Clara snorts. “I thought,” she says lazily. “That bras were an invention of the capitalist heteropatriarchy, and you had disavowed them in favour of letting your bosoms be wild and free.”

“That was before I tried running without a decent sports bra. Please. _Point me to a bra._ ”

Clara gestures vaguely to a drawer in her dresser and the Doctor retrieves a grey sports bra and pulls it on over her head with tangible relief.

“Pants?” she asks hopefully, and Clara points at the next drawer along. “Thank you.”

“I want those back, you know,” Clara observes, as the Doctor pulls out a pair of red knickers with lace edging and examines them with a bemused expression. “Just for the record.”

“What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is also mine,” the Doctor deadpans, holding up the knickers for Clara’s inspection and wrinkling her nose. “Although these look very… up-your-bum-y. Do you really wear these every day?”

“I definitely didn’t consent to the ownership thing, and no, I don’t wear that specific pair every day, because they do indeed go up your bum. However, they aren’t usually _on_ me for long enough to do that, because you usually take them _off_ me before that point.”

“Right,” the Doctor says, making an unreadable expression that Clara _hopes_ is one of approval, then fishing out a pair of somewhat more practical pants and putting them on, shortly followed by her crumpled trousers. “You know, speaking of consent, Yaz didn’t consent to seeing you naked, so maybe you should also do the getting-dressed thing.”

“Fine,” Clara grouses, getting to her feet and pulling on clean underwear, a pair of jeans, and a t-shirt with the utmost reluctance. The Doctor finally locates her t-shirt and tugs it on, before looking around for a final something.

“Urm,” the Time Lady asks, her eyebrows knitting together with worry. “This might not be a good time to ask, but what did you do with my braces after you’d urm… made use of them?”

“I left them where they were.”

“Doctor?” Yaz calls, much closer this time. “Do you want to explain why I’ve just found a pile of underwear and some really rubbish handcuffs made of braces, or do you want me to use my imagination?”

* * *

By the time they emerge, mostly-dressed (with exceptions to their shoes, because the Doctor _thinks_ she left her boots somewhere in the console room, and Clara refuses to put hers on as, for once, she ‘wants to be small’), they find that the team have made themselves mugs of tea and arranged themselves casually on the sofas in one corner of the console room, making small talk about the weather and something called _Line of Duty_.

As they approach, Yaz pings the offending braces-cum-handcuffs at the Doctor, who catches them in mid-air and adopts what she hopes is a suitably contrite expression. “Sorry,” she mumbles, her cheeks colouring as Yaz affixes her with a stern expression. “They were… that was… it were Clara’s idea.”

“Hey!” Clara objects, holding her hands up. “It was not!”

“It mostly was,” the Doctor counters. “And you were the one doing the knotting, so you can untangle them.” She hands them over to her partner, who accepts them with very poor grace and sets to work undoing the careful knots she’d tied in the yellow fabric. “Sorry, Yaz.”

“It’s fine,” Yaz mutters, although her expression indicates that it very much is not. “I mean, you’re both consenting adults.”

“She’s jealous,” Ryan jibes, and Yaz thumps him in the shoulder, spilling his tea onto the arm of the sofa. “Ow! What?! You are!”

“I’m not jealous! I just… you know, think they’re both very pretty, that’s all.”

“Thanks,” Clara interjects, tipping her a wink and causing Yaz to blush furiously. “Which of us would you rather be? Or do?”

“Oh my god,” Yaz groans, setting down her mug and hiding her face in her hands. “Not answering that. Really not answering that. Really, really not answering that.”

“Ryan, leave Yaz alone,” Graham chides, shaking his head fondly. “You young’uns. I remember being your age, you know. Getting up to all kinds of things.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan puts his hands over his ears, his expression horrified. “Grandad, _no_. I don’t need to know this. I don’t need to think about it. I don’t ever, ever want to think about… that.”

“What?” Graham rolls his eyes. “You think just because I’m some old duffer I’ve never had a bit of fun? I remember being young and having a _lot_ of fun with the ladies, I’ll have you know, and I had some moves-”

“I’m with Ryan here,” Yaz chips in, her eyes wide with horror. “Please stop talking.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor grimaces. “Also, when you say ‘my age’, you do realise I’m old enough to be your Messiah, right?”

“Get out. You’re never?!”

“And Clara’s… remind me?”

“About one hundred and five,” Clara screws up her face, counting silently and then shrugging. “Ish. Very much an ish. Give or take the odd half-decade”

“Blimey,” Graham lets out an impressed whistle, looking between the two of them with awe. “Whatever skincare you two are using, I want in on it.”

“No skincare, just good species genetics,” the Doctor shrugs, gesturing to Clara. “And a time stop.”

“Ah,” Graham sighs, then sets his mug down, looking up at them both with a frankness that is disconcerting. “One thing I will say, Doc, f I can… just… you know… while we’re on the topic of you two?”

“Yeah?” Clara asks, finally succeeding in detangling the braces and handing them back to the Doctor with a flourish.

“The walls in here?” Graham nods his head to the nearest wall, which is pulsing in a delicate shade of amber. “Ain’t all that soundproof.”

The Doctor turns a fiery shade of maroon as Clara smirks, Ryan and Yaz burying their heads in their hands and letting out synchronised groans.

“Right,” the Doctor manages, as Clara snickers beside her. “Urm. Well. Duly noted. Thanks, Graham.”


End file.
